


Polyjuice is Political or, Ode to Justin Finch-Fletchley's Frazzled Nerves

by TobermorianSass



Series: On-dits from the lives of the rich and the obscure [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: British Politics, Crack Treated Seriously, Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Polyjuice Potion, Racial slurs, Various Cameos - Freeform, don't take this seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/pseuds/TobermorianSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fix-it fic that Britain needs in which ancient Hufflepuff rivalries break forth into silly dares that end up disrupting the ITV election debate, UKIP loses face and the wizarding world is very nearly exposed on national television at prime time.</p><p>Or, just another bullet-point in the never-ending list of reasons why Hannah Abbott should never leave Ernie Macmillan and Zacharias Smith together when drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polyjuice is Political or, Ode to Justin Finch-Fletchley's Frazzled Nerves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EssayOfThoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/gifts).



> A celebratory lead-up to the ITV election debate on April 2nd. This is how we wish it all goes. It probably won't. 
> 
> The end notes explain most of the political references in the fic.

“I bet,” Ernie said with slow satisfaction, the beginnings of what seemed like a good (probably terrible) idea visibly taking shape, “I bet not even _you_ could outdo that fuggle-muggle. Er. That wanker –“

“Farage,” Justin supplied helpfully, taking another swig of firewhiskey, “UKIP.”

“Him,” said Ernie, “Nigel Farage. I bet not even _you_ could outdo that bastard.”

Zacharias Smith was visibly affronted by the suggestion that his skills at mouthing-off were anything but peerless.

“Nonsense. I do this for a living – verbi –“ he frowned, “Verbosity,” he waved his hand, “A fuggle-muggle is piffle by comparison.”

“No, no,” Justin clutched Smith’s robes with his free hand attempting to impress just how _terrible_ Nigel Farage was on his boyfriend, his other hand wrapped rather too possessively around a bottle of firewhiskey,  “You don’t understand. Dad says he’s the absolute pits. Even you’re better than him. You and Flint. Better than him.”

He was too drunk to parse the implied insult that had Ernie snickering into his eleventh butterbeer, but Zacharias was famed – if for nothing else – for his ability to take things in his stride and improvise wildly.

“I bet you I could,” he said, slamming his fist on the bar, “I bet you I could do worse.”

In an ideal universe, where things went right, Hannah Abbott would have intervened at this point and sent the three of them home with a sharp scolding for having even considered such a course of action within her earshot.  Justin would have apologized and sheepishly herded his unrepentant and recalcitrant boyfriend home and Ernie would have managed to apologize while somehow managing to remain quite pompous about all of it and the muggles would have been left well alone.

Unfortunately, this was not that ideal universe, and Hannah Abbott remained unaware of the skullduggery being plotted on the premises of the Leaky Cauldron.

“I bet you can’t,” Ernie repeated, somewhat unnecessarily.

Zacharias Smith glared angrily at Ernie and then at Justin.

“You support him,” he hissed, “You’re on his side.”

“Well, I mean,” Justin stammered, “ _Farage_.”

“How much d’you bet?” Smith demanded of Ernie.

“Ten galleons,” said Ernie, his eyes glinting much too triumphantly, “Ten galleons says you won’t.”

“ _Ha_ ,” said Zacharias, while Justin seized the collars of his robes and earnestly said, “Don’t do it, Zach, leave the muggles alone.”

“The muggles won’t know what hit them,” he said darkly, shaking hands with Ernie rather more dramatically than the situation warranted.

* * *

The next morning, Zacharias Smith woke up with a throbbing headache and a growing sense of doom that settled heavily at the bottom of his stomach as he slowly pieced together the various fragments of conversation drifting around painfully inside his brain.

“I can’t believe this,” he said unhappily, “I’m too old for this.”

“Five shots of firewhiskey. Too much brandy,” Justin murmured, his face buried in the pillow, “It wasn’t even midnight.”

“Too old for this,” Zacharias repeated, shielding his eyes with his hand as he reached for his wand with his other.

“Mmmfmfff,” was Justin’s eloquent reply.

“I have to go on national tele,” Zacharias Smith announced, ten minutes later.

This declaration was sufficiently startling enough that it made Justin sit up with a start and then wince as a sharp pain shot through his head before subsiding.

“What,” he said, once the world had settled down a bit.

“The election debate,” Zacharias Smith turned to look at Justin, “Nigel Farage. Ernie.”

“No I know that,” Justin frowned, “Why the tele, though?”

“Because it’s his next appearance,” he explained patiently, “The election debate on ITV. Nigel Farage’s, that is. Not Ernie.”

 Justin rubbed his face with his hand, “Please don’t do this.”

“You _heard_ him,” Smith grumbled, “’Bet you can’t mouth off better than a muggle politician ha ha’. Bastard.”

“Do you _actually_ know who any of the people are?” Justin asked him, curiously.

“Well I know there’s the Farage bloke everyone keeps yammering about,” Zacharias waved his hand,  “Camera –“

“Cameron,” Justin muttered underneath his breath.

“The band fellow,” Zacharias continued, ignoring the correction, “The Hufflepuff would-be – Clog? Clod? Whatever. Plaid Cymru, the person who smokes weed, the monsters,  and some angry scots.”

Of course, the only correct name on that list would be the Welsh one.

Justin sighed, “Are you _sure_ you want to be remembered for successfully running your mouth off better than a Thatcherite xenophobe?”

Zacharias flushed but his chin stuck out in a manner that betrayed his decision to stubbornly stand his ground.

“Besides which,” Justin was determined to push the point to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid, “He’s also a homophobe.”

“But _Ernie_ ,” Zacharias whined.

Justin patted his hand comfortingly, “There’ll be other bets to win.”

* * *

“So what you’re asking me,” Flint said, slowly, “Is if I’m willing to put my job on the line and _physically assault_ the leader of a muggle political party, so that you can take his place, so that we can amuse ourselves at the expense of the muggles.”

“Well,” Zacharias smiling in what he hoped was a confidential manner, “It’s all a bit boring otherwise, isn’t it?”

Flint sighed and rolled his eyes, “Don’t make me regret this, Smith.”

Zacharias beamed at him.

* * *

Ten minutes into the debate, Zacharias Smith decided that for all its limitations and all the shenanigans that went down in the Ministry when elections drew near, wizarding elections were, for the most part, infinitely preferable to the muggle ones. Most campaigns seemed to be something of a popularity contest – who could kiss the most babies, shake the most hands and discredit their opponents best with some occasional references to policy that, for the most part, everyone agreed with. Sure, there were always a few outliers, but after the war, at least, everyone had agreed that the system needed a reform and while a few people who had profited from the lax regulations of the war years resisted reform, most went along docilely because in the magical world, people just didn’t put up a fight.

That had its own setbacks, of course, but at least it meant he’d never had to listen to drivel about how drug addicts should simply go cold turkey in order to eliminate most of society’s crime problems.

Or how it was the former communist countries which were making this country worse off.

Which was his argument.

“Mr Farage?” The presenter turned to him.

Marcus Flint, Zacharias Smith observed, inanely, had a very menacing smile when you thought about it. Which he’d never had to do before. Not until now, that is, because Marcus was smiling at him in a way that suggested he was going to be skinned alive very soon and Zacharias Smith, whatever his faults were, did not fancy being skinned alive either now or any time in the near future. Or even the distant future.

He smiled brightly at the waiting audience, “I don’t think the points system goes far enough, personally. There’s a burden placed on the British public, I believe, that is undeserved, to both willingly give their jobs up to other supposedly qualified immigrants – I wonder how we qualify the term _qualified_ , when so many of them seem eager to come to _us_ for qualifications – and to make room for them in cities that are already overcrowded and overburdened and unable to provide the kind of standard of living we were used to – you know, I’m old enough to remember a time when you could go running outside without coughing up your lungs or for that matter, being afraid of being beheaded by extremists or mugged by DPs and we _certainly_ shouldn't have to share our neighbourhoods with Romanian thugs and drug-dealers; it's  _offensive_ and it unnecessarily burdens the State!”

Marcus Flint’s smile widened and Smith wondered if he should feel terrified or satisfied by this development.

* * *

At 8:15 PM, Justin Finch-Fletchley, having finished his work for the day, was packing his bag to leave when Dennis Creevey came running into his office looking both distressed and excited at the same time.

“They’re all bloody _mad_ ,” he said without preamble, “They’ve all gone _mad_. Farage, especially.”

“What,” said Justin, with a sinking feeling.

“The election debate?” Dennis replied impatiently, “ITV? They’ve got it on up in the DIMC.”

“Oh,” said Justin, “Um. I’ll be up in a minute. I just. Have a Floo call I need to make.”

“All right,” Dennis turned to leave, “You’re missing all the fun though.”

Once Dennis had disappeared, Justin hastily reached for the box of floo powder and cast a handful of powder into the fireplace.

“25 Fleet Street, The Wixenomist Office,” he said.

A few minutes later a very flustered Justin Finch-Fletchley made his way up to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, with the express intent of imparting some very choice words to Permanent Private Secretary, Ernest Macmillan.

* * *

“While I do sympathize with Nicola and Leanne here,” said not-Farrage, “We must bear in mind that we all of us face a greater enemy in the form of European tyranny –“

“D’you know,” Dennis whispered to Justin, “He called the president a wet rag. In the  _parliament_ that too.”

Justin smiled weakly and crossed his fingers, hoping that Zacharias wouldn’t try to improve upon this performance.

“That said –“

“Oh no,” Justin mouthed silently.

“I believe –“

“Please don’t,” Justin wished, for a brief moment, that there was a divinity he could call upon to make this stop.

“That Leanne makes a convincing argument in favour of Welsh devolution.”

Justin covered his face with both his hands and tried not to scream hysterically.

* * *

Zacharias Smith surveyed his audience with satisfaction. Nearly half-an-hour of trying to be Nigel Farage had proved to be immensely taxing and his ability to invent new ways of being racist without actually sounding like Voldemort on a rampage was wearing thin. Time for something new, he’d thought. It wasn’t as though he was actually invested in this – though if what he’d read was right, he’d be doing a public service.

And as far as the bet was concerned, Ernie had only said he wouldn’t be able to mouth off as ridiculously as Farage, not whether he could _impersonate_ Farage.

“I believe in reducing the size of the state,” he gestured expansively, “What better way to shrink the state than to allow Wales to govern itself,” he paused and added as an afterthought, “Not Scotland though.”

“I fail to see why Scotland should be treated any differently from Wales –“

“Because your track record indicates that your nation is unable to deal with the rigours of devolution, your people lack faith in your ability to govern them once independent and you lack the financial institutions and framework to make independence viable,” he said damningly to the SNP leader, “Besides which you’re all a bunch of irresponsible sheep-shaggers munching on haggis and getting off on Burns night.”

He grinned disarmingly – or it would have been disarming in his usual body, he suppose he looked like a lizard trying to be human – and steadfastly avoided looking at where Marcus Flint would no doubt be breathing fire and brimstone.

* * *

“ _That bastard_ ,” cried Ernie, struggling against Dennis and Euan’s attempts to restrain him, “You heard him!”

Something inside Justin snapped.

“None of this would have happened if you didn’t feel compelled to needle Zach every time the two of you meet,” he said sharply, “Or if the two of you could just _grow up_ and put the past behind you.”

He realized what he’d said a little too late. By then, every eye in the room was fixed on him and Hermione Granger-Weasley’s wand was pointed straight between his eyes.

“What did you say?” she asked him, unnaturally calm.

He swallowed and licked his lips before smiling ingratiatingly, “Um –“

“Shhh,” said Dennis and Euan in unison.

“Shut up,” said Dennis, clearly enjoying himself far too much, “You’ll miss the fun bits.”

* * *

“I mean, I’m an accepting man, I believe in equality for everyone, but you have to draw the line somewhere,” Zacharias-pretending-to-be-Farage continued, pretending to be blissfully unaware of the chaos he was causing, “I draw it at sheep-shagging. Some people draw the line elsewhere – you know, gay rights –“

“Let’s talk about gay rights,” said the presenter, desperately seizing at the straw offered her.

“Yes let’s talk about gay rights,” Zacharias said brightly, before any of the other debaters could a word in, “I, for one, strongly support the rights of gay people.”

The band fellow – well Ed Miliband, technically, he liked to call him ‘the band fellow’ in an attempt at grotesque self-parody which nearly everyone assumed was what he actually knew, i.e. nothing – seemed to think this was risible and said something about something offensive someone said four months ago. As well as his apparent unwillingness to support gay marriage under the EU.

Well then.

“With all due respect, Ed,” he drawled, “There can be no true marriage under the European Union. Though I’m sure you haven’t realized, with a personality as charming as yours.”

A strange twinging in his jaw made him miss the flabbergasted look on Ed Miliband’s face, as well as the ensuing chaos. He checked his watch. Fifty-five minutes. Five minutes to get out of the studio, find the room where he and Flint had left Nigel Farage, change and get out.

And Flint was wiggling his eyebrows at him in a way that he assumed was meant to convey some kind of meaning to him, but between the distance and the bright lights, he couldn’t quite tell what the eyebrow signals meant though he assumed it had to do with getting out of there. Quickly.

He took a deep breath and determinedly crossed the studio floor.

“Toughen up bitchcakes, this is for gay rights and your charming personality,” he said, before pulling what was his _stupidest_ stunt in all his life on ITV at prime time.

* * *

The room was quiet enough that a pin could have been heard falling to the floor as they watched, in horror, not-Nigel Farage grab Ed Miliband by his collar, smash his face into Miliband’s in an absurd attempt at a kiss, while saying something that sounded like “charming personality, gay rights and toughen up bitchcakes” in no particular order, before running off-screen.

“Well,” said Dennis, summing up the feelings of everyone in the room in one pithy word.

* * *

“Bloody _hell,_ Smith,” said Marcus, joining him in the room where they’d left Nigel Farage sleeping peacefully, “You don’t do it by halves do you?”

“You kept wiggling your eyebrows at me,” he replied, hastily shedding unknotting his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, “It rattled me.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows skeptically but decided not to grace that with a reply, “The aurors are coming, you know,” he said diffidently.

“ _What_?”

“You know,” said Marcus, “Aurors. Arrest troublesome wizards. Wizards who cause trouble with muggles.”

“ _Fucking_ –“

“They’re probably coming up the stairs now,” Marcus continued, unconcerned, “Someone told them a wizard was causing trouble here.”

“You mean you told them,” Smith was down to his underpants now and trying to collect his clothes scattered across the room.

“You shouldn’t have insulted Scotland,” said Marcus sadly. He opened the door and looked out, “You’ll have to leave now if you don’t want to get caught.”

“I’m not wearing any clothes –“

Marcus shrugged, “If you _want_ to get caught –“

Zacharias Smith hastily bundled his clothes together and picked his shoes up in one hand, “You’re a bastard Flint.”

“Go fuck a sheep, y'Welsh fag.”

Zacharias gestured rudely at him then apparated away. Flint waited ten minutes after he’d left before stepping out of the room.

“I just missed him,” he said, shrugging regretfully at the Auror coming down the hallway, “Didn’t even get a look at his face.”

* * *

Zacharias shut the door behind him took one look at the foreboding expression on Justin Finch-Fletchley’s face and wondered if it might not be better to spend the night on the other side of the door. He settled for smiling winsomely instead, certain that at least now that he had his face back he’d look vaguely charming and possibly charm the anger out of Justin.

Possibly.

Just possibly.

“You’re in your underpants,” said Justin, somewhat unnecessarily, Zacharias felt. He'd spent half-an-hour skulking around in St. James' Park trying to get his trousers and his shirt on without being booked for indecent exposure, failed miserably, then decided that he'd screwed the Statute of Secrecy over so much in one night that a little bit more could hardly hurt anyone and Apparated directly on to the doorstep of the house he and Justin shared on Old Queen Street.

Remarking upon his lack of clothing, he felt, was unnecessarily rubbing salt in his wounds. 

“Ah. Yes. I can explain –“

“You insulted all of Scotland on national television. At prime time.”

“I’m not sorry,” said Zacharias, his chin tilting dangerously up, “Ernie’s a wanker.”

“You snogged Ed Miliband on national television.”

“Ah –“

“You can’t go around snogging people who aren’t your boyfriends on national television!”

This was _not_ how Zacharias Smith had expected this conversation to go at all.

“I don’t –“

“And Ernie Macmillan is _not_ the standard of behaviour you hold yourself up to! You don’t do things because he dares you to – _you’re not a fucking teenager anymore, you can’t go about doing things on drunk dares especially not when muggle politics is concerned. Especially not snogging muggle politicians on the tele!_ ”

“Ah,” said Zacharias, “So that’s what it’s all about. Me snogging Ed Miliband.”

“You know you’re really annoying,” said Justin, in a strangled voice, “I can’t even be angry at you because you’re in your knickers and it’s been a long day and you’re standing over there being you and you probably fucked UKIP over for good which is a _good_ thing and you’re in your _fucking knickers_ –“

“You’re babbling,” said Zacharias, placing a hand over Justin’s mouth, “Don’t.”

“You’re not forgiven,” Justin replied, “You’re going to get into lots of trouble.”

“Won the bet, didn’t I?”

“And nearly risked the Statute of bloody Secrecy while doing so – Stop it,” Justin stamped his foot angrily, “Stop doing the thing. _You’re in so much trouble_.”

“As long as it’s with you,” Zacharias wiggled his eyebrows in a manner that could only be described as lascivious.

Justin bit his shoulder. Hard.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the references made in the fic:
> 
> The Lib Dems' colours are Yellow/Orange and their leader has a rep for being a pushover, ergo, wannabe Hufflepuffs. Person who smokes weed is the Green Party. The monsters are the [Monster Raving Loony Party](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Official_Monster_Raving_Loony_Party).
> 
> Leanne Wood is the head of [Plaid Cymru](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plaid_Cymru), the Welsh nationalist party. Nicola Sturgeon is the head of the [Scottish National Party](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scottish_National_Party). Both parties want their countries to be independent of England. I headcanon Zacharias Smith as Welsh (from the Rhondda Valleys like Leanne Wood) & Ernie Macmillan as Scottish. Naturally, they don't see eye to eye on Welsh or Scottish independence.
> 
> UKIP's two selling points are that they love small states & they hate the EU. Sometimes this leads to twisted policies such as [not supporting gay marriage under the European Union](http://www.theguardian.com/politics/2014/mar/28/gay-marriage-nigel-farage-ukip) and sometimes this means their leader, Nigel Farage, [insults the EU President by calling him a wet rag](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sV6aVH3NFTY). It also means they [dislike immigrants from the EU](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1rHFHQleTg).
> 
> Sheep-shagging is a negative stereotype of people from both Scotland and Wales.
> 
> The something offensive someone said four months ago is Lord Monckton, former head of the UKIP's, statement that [gay men sleep with up to 20,000 men in their lifetime](http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/nigel-farage-condemns-former-ukip-deputy-moncktons-comments-that-gay-men-have-20000-sexual-partners-in-their-miserable-lives-9890191.html).


End file.
